


sing, sweet nightingale

by houseofskywalker



Category: Revenge of the Sith - Fandom, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin’s nightmares come true, Angst and Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Loss, Mortality, Romance, Terminal Illness, Tragedy, it’s a question of whether he’ll fight it or come to terms with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofskywalker/pseuds/houseofskywalker
Summary: It starts with a cough.Padmé assures him it’s nothing—just a cold she caught while visiting wintery Alderaan. Nothing to worry about.But then she coughs up blood, and Anakin’s nightmares start to become reality.(AU where Padmé really is dying.)
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala & Bail Organa, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	sing, sweet nightingale

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, uh. I like hurting myself (also my grandpa died so I guess this is me coping with it), so I thought why not write a fic where Anakin’s nightmares actually make sense because Padmé is actually dying from a terminal illness and how she and Anakin come to terms with it (or not, knowing Anakin).

Padmé is an absolute workaholic, and she takes much pride in this fact.

There is no bigger honour than dedicating one’s life to a cause they believe in. One might call it blind dedication, or just blindness (since many are so eager to call her an ‘enabler of corruption’ because of her continued belief in the Republic), but Padmé keeps both her eyes open at all times, lest she misses any developments that might harm her cause.

She works well into the night sometimes. To the eternal annoyance of her husband, who demands she drop everything whenever he comes home and attend to him, pay him attention. As if her piles of petitions and mile-long legislations suddenly disappear into thin air when Anakin pops up again every other month.

Like now, when she’s drafting a bill that would restore back the power that was taken from millions of Coruscanti citizens after the power grid bombing. Padmé’s first attempt failed, but she thinks she’s found a loophole, a different wording, something that will finally convince this passive Senate to stop and  _listen_ —

“ Angel,  _come to bed_. ”

“Not now, Ani,” she snaps. And scribbles down more notes. No no, this won’t do.

She  feels him before she sees him, on account of that magnetic connection they share; the wooden doorframe of her office juts against his bare skin, and it echoes across hers—she shivers when the breeze from her window drifts into the room, makes the hairs on his bare chest stand up. When Padmé looks up from her work, it might as well be her own eyes staring down at her—she can sense his irritation as if it’s her own.

Anakin’s mouth twists in displeasure. “You’ve been hunched over your desk since I came here. Padmé, I haven’t seen you in  _ two months. ” _

“I know!” Padmé bows her head, buries her fingers in her hair, massages her aching scalp. “ _ I know  _ I’m being difficult. I just need to finish this by tomorrow.”

“There’s not even a session at the Senate tomorrow! Padmé, you’re working yourself to death, I—“

“Don’t even say such things,” chides Padmé. Occupational burnout is very real and she does  _ not  _ suffer from it.

He crosses his arms, a challenging gleam in his eye. Distracted, her eyes drift down to the bulging muscles of his bare upper body; the contrast of his one leather glove with the rest of his golden skin calls her attention. Anakin is a formidable man, has truly grown into man of beauty, but Padmé likes his arms the most. Big, sinewy, with thick veins which run like the rivers of Naboo down his elbow to his wrist. They speak of a strength which has no equal, a rock sharpened into diamond.

Anakin catches her ogling him, smirks, and starts flexing. Posing. “Like what you see...  _Senator_ ,”  he drawls, eyes lidded, his mouth hilariously pouty.

It’s enough to draw a pearl of laughter from her. Fine. Just this once.

Padmé rises, and moves to walk around the desk—when her vision  _ glitches _ , like a collapsing hologram, and her knees fold.

Anakin rushes to her side and she drops into his arms like a flower with its stem cut. “ _ Padmé _ ! Are you alright? What just happened?!”

Her head spins. She tries to focus on Anakin—to use his beautiful face, his shining eyes as her anchor to consciousness—but he’s hazy, like a lighthouse hidden in sea mist, and she’s sinking.

Padmé grasps at his arms.  _ You’re okay. It’s just exhaustion. You’re overworked. Just come back, come back. _

She lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m alright,” she sighs, and laughs, looks up at her concerned husband. Her dizzy spell is gone, but has left one hell of a headache in its wake. She rubs her temples. “You’re right. I think I need sleep.”

He tightens his arm around her. “You sure? I’ll take you to the medbay—“

“Absolutely not,” she huffs. “Anakin, I’m not a doll. I’m allowed to be tired once in a while.”

Though, Padmé secretly likes it when he fusses over her like this, as much as she tends to complain. Anakin’s her only distraction in her fast-paced life; he’s the only one who treats her with care, sees not just the indomitable Senator Amidala but the  _ woman _ inside, and all the vulnerabilities that comes with it.

He’s truly a doting husband. It’s just a shame he’s not around often.

Anakin doesn’t need to be told twice, and promptly gathers her in his arms, carries her over the threshold of their bedroom like the night they got married.

It makes Padmé giggle. With Anakin, every night they spend together feels like their wedding night. Just as sensual, just as passionate.

Tonight, though, she’s too tired.

He carefully places her on the bed, on her pillow, but Padmé has different ideas: she inches back to him and rests her head in his lap, and Anakin chuckles, starts rubbing circles on her scalp.

Padmé closes her eyes languorously and dreams of Varykino—of salt water on her tongue and wet grass tickling her neck, and Anakin’s whispers in her ear.

**Author's Note:**

> :(


End file.
